


Hubris

by PinkFringedFury



Category: Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Abuse of Power, Bloodplay, Coercion, Consent Issues, Dom!Pan, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:12:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkFringedFury/pseuds/PinkFringedFury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t hear you counting, Hook,” Pan prompted. Hook’s hiss earnt him a vicious bite to his shoulder from behind. Pan sucked the wound hungrily until blood welled through the flesh – and oh, what a perfect show of learning through example. What a good boy. Hook thrilled when Pan did not spit derisively onto the floor, as usual, but instead elected to swallow.</p>
<p>“Count them yourself,” Hook jeered. From the corner of his eye, he could see Pan’s face darken into a scowl - there was even an angry flush spreading across his freckled cheeks. They both knew that Pan could not count as high as the number of lashes he would surely deliver. Hook bared his teeth and sneered at Peter Pan. The boy’s blade nicked at his throat in seconds.</p>
<p>“You think I’m stupid,” said Pan, in a petulant accusation. Hook laughed openly and was rewarded with a rough yank of his hair. “Just a dull little forest-boy.”</p>
<p>“Oh, child,” Hook purred, breathlessly. “Perish the thought.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hubris

**Author's Note:**

> Dominant!Pan, bloodplay, oral sex, wholly unhealthy power dynamics and abuses of power, manipulation.

The familiar decks of the Jolly Roger creaked overhead, groaning in sympathetic suffering. The flat of Peter Pan’s short sword cracked against the cold expanses of Captain James Hook’s back, leaving stripes of fierce, blistering pleasure that brought yellow bruises to the skin. Pan tutted impatiently and his willing prisoner – bound, kneeling and vulnerable – flexed his good hand behind his back to lessen the bite of the ropes.

“I don’t hear you counting, Hook,” Pan prompted. Hook’s hiss earnt him a vicious bite to his shoulder from behind. Pan sucked the wound hungrily until blood welled through the flesh – and oh, what a perfect show of learning through example. What a good boy. Hook thrilled when Pan did not spit derisively onto the floor, as usual, but instead elected to swallow.

“Count them yourself,” Hook jeered. From the corner of his eye, he could see Pan’s face darken into a scowl - there was even an angry flush spreading across his freckled cheeks. They both knew that Pan could not count as high as the number of lashes he would surely deliver. Hook bared his teeth and sneered at Peter Pan. The boy’s blade nicked at his throat in seconds.

“You think I’m stupid,” said Pan, in a petulant accusation. Hook laughed openly and was rewarded with a rough yank of his hair. “Just a dull little forest-boy.”

“Oh, child,” Hook purred, breathlessly. “Perish the thought.”

Hook’s breath stuttered when Pan moved the sword from his throat and traced a line down the length of the Captain’s spine, drawing a raised welt to the skin, which soon yellowed with delicate beads of his repulsive, unnatural blood. The sword was sharp. The sword had never been sharp before all this. Hook concealed his grin and hummed in mock-disapproval.

“Peter,” he rumbled, “teasing is bad form.”

He hissed sharply when Pan’s nipping became a bruising bite.

“I didn’t tell you to speak. You can't speak to me unless I say you can. Those are the rules.”

Hook remained dutifully silent and stifled a long, low moan when Pan’s tongue traced the bloody line down the length of his back. Pan settled behind him and Hook could feel the familiar pressure of the lad’s erection pressing against him.

“Something the matter, Pan?” he asked. Pan huffed and ignored his comment, contenting himself with leaving bruises along the Captain’s sloping shoulders.

“You know very well what you have to do for it, boy,” Hook smirked. Pan scowled and Hook continued in a sing-song tone. “Ask nicely.”

“Don’t talk!” said Pan, cheeks hot with anger. Hook grinned and Pan, thank the Lord, saw fit to strike him across the cheek. The blow brought tears to his eyes, and sent a stab of pleasure straight through his aching groin.

“Peter, please…”

“Say you’re a codfish,” Pan ordered. Hook resisted the childish demand – really, how entirely unarousing – and Pan raked his blunt, dirty nails down Hook’s chest from behind. “Say it!”

Hook jerked his head away with a sneer. Pan hauled it back into place. Hatred and desire sparked between them as Captain and captor stared at one another.

“You’re a foolish, arrogant little brat. Face reality, Pan, and grow up,” Hook spat. Pan grinned and reached forwards, and Hook cried out in pleasure and pain as the boy rubbed the heel of his palm into the Captain’s erection.

"You're a desperate old man, waiting to die,” he whispered back. Hook’s breath stuttered at so adult and so awful a slur. Peter Pan pulled away, his grin once again childish and giddy with the sick thrill of stolen power. “Now say it.”

Hook endured the painful tugging of his hair and set his jaw. He would not appease the more petulant, juvenile wishes of his nemesis – that defeated the object of the exercise. Pan gave an irritated snort and moved to stand before his prisoner, tunic rustling as he dragged it up with impatient, slender fingers.

“Fine. If you won’t speak, I shall have to make you be useful.”

Hook did not react to the sight of Pan’s erection – an act which had once unnerved the boy. Indeed, the very rise of the swollen flesh had startled the boy all those moons ago, when this had first begun. Hook had been obliging then, and Pan had grown to crave, just as desperately as Hook had hoped he would. The pressure at his lips was not the unsure shuddering of a boy. Pan’s eyes were hard and dark in ways they had never been. When Hook dragged his tongue across the weeping slit of the lad’s erection, Pan’s moan was low and rattling, and Hook’s own muffled noises bordered on the truly obscene as he released Pan from the blessed heat and pressure of his mouth.

“Don’t stop,” Pan groaned, panting raggedly. “I didn’t order you to stop. You musn’t.”

Hook ignored him and instead rubbed his cheek against Pan’s erection. The lad groaned at the scrape of two-day stubble, hands curling in the Captain’s mass of dark curls. Hook reprimanded himself for not shaving; he might have been a deviant of the most awful designs, but he would remain a gentleman in appearance, at the very least.

He chided Pan’s impatient huff with a slow, deliberate scrape of his teeth. If Pan was angered by the rebellion, he did not show it or make any movement to correct it. Too content with violating his rival’s mouth, the mind of Peter Pan was elsewhere. For a brief moment, Hook debated slitting the ropes that bound his wrists in a swift slide of his polished, silver hook. He remembered licking the wicked curve clean, smearing the precious ruby blood of the eternal youth over his tongue as the boy jerked and bucked against his hand, spilling over callused fingers.

Quite without warning, Pan stabbed his hips forward. Hook fought down the overwhelming urges to cough and to viciously bite down as Pan’s erection was forced into his mouth. His uncomfortable groan shuddered down the length of the lad’s cock and dragged a self-indulgent moan from Pan, and Hook forced himself to focus on dragging awkward, insufficient breath through his nose as Peter Pan fucked his throat. The lad’s sword clattered to the floor – irritatingly out of reach – as Pan dragged his captive’s head forwards with one hand and forced it to remain in place with the other.

It took a disappointingly short time for the lad to cry out and jerk his hips frantically as he came. Warned in advance by the pulse and twitch of painfully swollen flesh, Hook did not flinch or choke as Peter Pan climaxed. It tasted no better than any other lover that Hook had serviced. Against the sickening, salacious gossiping amongst the crew, Peter Pan did not come honey. When Pan pulled out and steadied himself, hands still gripping the Captain’s hair, Hook allowed himself a repulsed grimace for dramatic effect, even as he shifted his spread knees further apart to ease the aching in his groin.

“How does it feel, Hook?” gloated Pan, shoulders heaving, grin broad. His curls stuck to his forehead, dark with sweat. “Defeated yet again by a boy.”  
Hook tutted and tossed his head, ignoring Pan’s jibe as he evened out his heavy breathing. Only when the lad repeated his question and forced the Captain’s head up did Hook deign to offer a dry, pithy remark.

“You are a boy when it suits you.”

“What was that?” said Peter Pan, uncertain and defensive. Hook prickled with anticipation. Now. Now, he would claim his victory.

“You’re the boy who won’t grow up,” Hook purred, “not the boy who can’t.”

Pan bristled. He swallowed. He struggled for words beyond the helpless protestations of a child racing through a limited arsenal of retort.

“Aye, you’ll choose to act the carefree, innocent brat for as long as it suits your purposes,” Hook murmured, “but I’ve seen you in battle, Peter Pan, and I know your bloodlust.” The skin around the metal hook prickled painfully at the memory. “I’ve seen you the way you look at that red-skinned savage—”

“Be quiet!”

“At your own, dear fairy—”

“I said be quiet!”

Hook paused, eyes meeting Peter Pan’s.

“…and how you pine for your precious Wendy.”

The blow that came in response was severe, even by Hook’s standards; Pan’s fist collided with the Captain’s cheekbone, with force enough to turn Hook’s head. A pained cry left the Captain entirely against his will. Bad form. It took him a few moments to collect himself before he could look up at Pan. Behind Peter Pan’s furious blue eyes lurked a fear and a knowledge too awful to endure.

“That girl doomed you the day she gave you her kiss, Peter Pan,” he murmured. Pan’s nose wrinkled with mistrust, but he did not make any move to pull away. “You may not wish to grow up, but you have. In time, all things will and must.”

“That’s enough!” Pan cried. “Stop! Stop talking!” Hook could feel the boy shaking.

“Oh, you precious imbecile,” cooed the Captain. He turned his head, nuzzling the bridge of his nose against Pan’s wrist. “Silly little forest boy. The damage is most certainly done.” He hummed at Pan’s spluttering. “Oh hush, Pan. You know I speak the truth. But there’s no need to fret.”

Hook’s thin lips brushed the satin-soft skin of Pan’s wrist.

"There’s so very, very much to look forward to.”

Pan drew in a stuttering gasp, almost a gulp. Hook drank in the youth’s loathing, his fear, and his uncertainty, and gave a full-body shudder of pleasure. Slowly, surely, Peter Pan would fall. Moments of this exquisite victory were worth all the degradation in the world.

Pan’s chest puffed with false bravado and his jaw tightened with a juvenile attempt to conceal his worry. Hook offered him only a sarcastic, sympathetic coo and pursed his lips into a miserable pout.

“Say it isn’t so, James,” he beseeched himself. “Say Peter Pan will be forever young. Forever a boy; free, pure and as bright as a jewel.” A vicious smile narrowed his eyes. “Peter Pan was tainted years ago – and you, you poor, naïve fool, were too simple to stop it.”

Hook’s braying laughter grated against Pan’s ears and drowned his desperate cry for Hook to be silent. The lad snarled, fumbling on the floor for his discarded sword as he pulled down his tunic. Imbued with raw anger to overwhelm the pulse of lust and fear, Pan lashed out with his sword – this time, aimed at Hook’s neck. When Hook ducked the swipe easily, Pan stumbled forwards with surprise. Hook heaved his shoulder roughly against Pan’s leg and sent the boy sprawling.

Hook drew himself to his feet easily, ignoring the pain and discomfort in his legs from kneeling. He twisted his wrists sharply back and forth behind his back, slicing neatly through his bindings with two loud, ragged tears.

Pan lifted himself up swiftly into the air, ready to defend. He attempted the first few words of an insult before the Captain darted forwards, hook dragging down in a brutal arc. Pan narrowly avoided being disembowelled by parrying the blow. The force behind the clashing steel jarred Hook’s arm and pulled a stifled grunt from Pan.  
“Oh, the cleverness of you – to think you’d the measure of Captain James Hook,” Hook sneered. Pan heaved his blade against the sickle-curve of the hook and knocked it away, kicking upwards in the air to avoid Hook’s grasping left hand. The lad’s eyes darted to the open window. Hook made an unsuccessful lunge for the hem of Pan’s tunic, grasping at the fragments of autumn leaves and web. With all the grace and elegance of a preying kingfisher, Pan dove and twisted his lithe body through the wide, open porthole and out into the sky. When he turned, the smugness plastered across his flawless face made Hook roll his eyes.

“Missed me again, you old codfish!” he taunted, bright eyed and crawling with life. Hook settled himself against the wall of his cabin, arms folded on the ledge of the porthole as he eyed the floating boy. Pan’s long legs swung idly below him, safely out of reach. His tunic rustled and pulled against his body – broadening shoulders, a far stronger jaw, wheat-coloured curls loose and tangled. Hook could count sixteen of the eighty seven freckles on that smooth, tanned skin and he drummed his nails against the curved, metal rim of the porthole.

“Blast,” he droned, listlessly. “Foiled again.” He glanced up at Pan with a wry, hungry smirk. “Until our next meeting, Pan.”

Pan sheathed his sword and crossed his arms over his chest.

“It’s over, Hook. It’s bad form not to accept defeat.”

Hook indulged Pan’s jibe with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“How thoughtful of a mere boy to educate his elders in the fine art of maintaining excellent form,” he said. A pause lingered between them, expectant and heavy as Hook reached across the porthole to close the glass. Pan’s face warped into a mask of horror before he could conceal the expression. Hook’s smirk brought a hot, ashamed flush to the lad’s cheeks.

“Don’t fret, Pan,” he murmured. “My window will remain open, as always.”

Pan spat into the ocean, and Hook turned his back on the lad - but even as the obnoxious, shrill crowing of Peter Pan echoed into the distance, startling the dozing lookouts of the Jolly Roger, Captain Hook felt the unfamiliar joy of a sordid, wonderful victory singing in his chest.


End file.
